Page 110 of On the Breakaway

It should’ve been the perfect play. New York’s goalie wasn’t even in position. I had all the space in the world and still managed to miss by an embarrassing margin. The crowd groans, but I try to tune them out.

Becca pats my back as she doubles back for the goal kick. “You’ll get it next time.”

But I don’t get it next time. Or the time after that.

Eventually, Wesley’s voice cuts across the field, but I don’t bother looking at her. I already know that the expression will be the same one Coach Bennett gave me at halftime. The face that says, “What the hell is wrong with you?”

Their left midfielder throws the ball in from the sideline, and I try to focus on the game instead of the growing irritation crawling beneath my skin.

Coach’s halftime intervention echoes through my head.

You’ve turned the ball over four times.

You’ve missed two shots.

As if I wasn’t perfectly aware of the fact that I’m playing like shit.

But what exactly am I supposed to say to anyone?

That I’d spent most of the night awake after leaving Grayson’s hotel room? That every time I closed my eyes last night, I found myself replaying every second of him against me right up to the look on his face when I tried to leave?

I’d walked out of there convinced I was making the right decision, only to spend the next eight hours questioning whether I actually had.

I’ve spent months chasing Damon out of my head with pitchforks, just for Grayson to plant himself right in the fucking middle of it when I stopped being careful. Letting someone else dictate my mood and confidence is exactly how I ended up here, and I’ve worked too hard rebuilding myself to hand that power over again.

The ball swings back toward our side of the field. I press higher, trying to force my attention where it belongs. But when Haley wins possession and sends a pass toward me, I hesitate just long enough for the defender to recognize the opening before I do, stepping cleanly into the lane and stealing the ball right off my foot.

“Fuck.”

I wish I could say I’m surprised when Coach pulls me off the field at the next pause in play, but I’m not.

The crowd applauds politely as I jog toward the bench, and somehow that feels worse than if they booed. Every step is accompanied by a fresh wave of irritation because if I were Coach Bennett, I’d pull me too.

Once I’m on the bench, wrapped in a jacket and forced to watch instead of play, there’s nothing left to distract me from my thoughts, which drift back to the unanswered text sitting in my phone.

Grayson: Can we please talk?

Grayson sent it right after lunch, and at first, I told myself I didn’t respond because I was busy. Then, I convinced myself there wasn’t any point in answering because he was already on the ice for their afternoon game. After that, there was a team dinner, warmups, game prep, and a hundred other convenient excuses until I was forced to face the fact that I have absolutely no idea what to say.

Last night was too good. I’d known for weeks that it would be. When we crossed that line in the bathroom, this outcome may as well have been written into stone. Sooner or later, we were going to end up hooking up, and now, I’m forced to remember exactly why last night should have never happened.

Leave it to Grayson to take something that was supposed to be simple and turn it into something complicated. He said I’m running away. And sure, maybe I am. But only because he’s trying to make it into something more than what we’d agreed it would be.

I should’ve known better.

Grayson is a relationship guy through and through, whether he wants to admit it or not. Men who take care of drunk women in bars, make omelets the morning after, and ask you to stay after sex don’t suddenly wake up one day capable of being casual. That’s not who he is.

And I’m not built for a real relationship. Not again.

I understand now that all the niceness I spent months accusing him of faking isn’t an act at all. It’s genuine. It’s carved into him in a way that’s probably impossible to turn off, and one day he’s going to make some woman incredibly happy.

I just can’t be her.

I don’t want to be.

Relationships only create problems. My parents prove that every time they tear each other apart. And Damon taught me that when he convinced me control was the same as love. Which is exactly why I left last night, even if part of me wanted nothing more than to stay.

The final whistle blows before I can spiral any further, and I glance up at the scoreboard only to realize that at some point during my self-inflicted crisis, I’d completely missed our second goal.